


It's Not Paranoia (If They're Out to Get You)

by Brumeier



Series: At The Movies [6]
Category: Stargate Atlantis, Stargate SG-1
Genre: Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, Brain Damage, Canonical Character Death, Conspiracy Theories, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Gun Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, M/M, Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-23 16:03:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7470000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brumeier/pseuds/Brumeier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Movie Fusion: Conspiracy Theory</p><p>John Sheppard has a lot on his plate, between hosting a popular TV series and trying to find out who killed his father. What he doesn't need is to get sucked into one of Rodney's crazy conspiracy theories, one that's full of questions, one that might lead to his own death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Not Paranoia (If They're Out to Get You)

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156598319@N08/35962593221/in/dateposted-public/)

* * *

John looked over the notes for the day’s taping while Cathy touched up his makeup and made rude noises at his stubborn cowlicks. It was pretty straight-forward stuff, another political scandal in a seemingly endless parade of the same, but his viewing audience ate that shit up.

“It’s a good thing you’re so pretty,” Cathy said, closing up her purple makeup case. “You must the only person on the planet who can make cowlicks look rakish.”

“Thanks?” John wasn’t sure that was a compliment or not.

“John!” His assistant, Aiden Ford, hurried over with a coffee cup in one hand and papers in the other. “I think I have something!”

“No.” John took the coffee and headed for the set. It looked like a standard news desk, just a bit more sleek and well-appointed than anything the networks or CNN had. He also had the benefit of not shooting live, so he never had to worry about looking like an idiot.

“But this is –”

“No,” John repeated. “If this is anything like your big story on NASA trying to kill the president with some kind of seismic device from space, I’m not interested.”

Ford was a good guy, loyal and earnest and good at his job. But he had an unfortunate gullibility when it came to conspiracy theories, some inherent desire to accept as fact even the most outlandish story. John wouldn’t be surprised to find out that the kid still believed in Santa Claus.

“Ten minutes,” Blake, the director, said.

John just waved a hand at him and took his seat behind the desk. There was a green screen monitor behind him and to the left, which would have story-relevant screen shots added to it in post-production. All he had to do was read from the teleprompter and do his best to come across as both concerned and just a little angry, so that the viewers would know how committed he was to righting the wrongs his show put on display every week.

He was just getting ready to clip his microphone on when he heard a noisy scuffle coming from the other side of the backdrop. It didn’t take long to figure out the cause of the problem, and he sighed. Not again.

“I have every right to see John!”

“Sir, this is a closed set.”

“John? I know you’re here! Hey! John!”

John closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them Ford had materialized next to him.

“Want me to call security?”

That would’ve been the smart thing to do. “No. I’ll talk to him.”

John walked behind the backdrop to find Rodney McKay, the albatross around his neck, being forcibly restrained by one of the set techs and Arnie, the craft services guy. As always, John felt conflicting emotions where Rodney was concerned. On the one hand, the guy had saved his life and John felt he owed him. On the other hand, Rodney was insane.

“John! There you are. I need to talk to you.”

“It’s okay, guys. You can let him go.” John nodded at the set tech, who immediately let go, but Arnie wasn’t as easily convinced. 

“He’ll steal my food,” Arnie said, scowling. He was pretty formidable, for a man in his seventies. “He can’t just take it.”

“I have hypoglycemia!” Rodney protested. He was wearing a tight blue t-shirt and baggy blue jeans, hands wrapped tightly around the strap of the messenger bag that was slung across one of his broad shoulders.

“I got this, Arnie.” John clapped him on the back. “Rodney. What’s going on, buddy?”

Rodney gestured for John to follow him into a shadowed niche. He kept his voice down to a stage whisper.

“I have your next story, and it’s a doozy.” Rodney grinned eagerly. “It’s all right here.”

He fished through his bag and pulled out a piece of lined paper still bearing the ragged edge where it was torn out of a notebook. John took it, already knowing what he’d find: Rodney’s cramped handwriting filled the page, a mixture of mathematical equations, nonsense words, and schematics.

“I don’t know what this is,” John said as patiently as he could.

“Well, no. It’s encrypted.”

“That really doesn’t help me.”

“Oh. Uh…”

“Rodney, I have to start taping. Can this wait?”

“No! Okay, wait. Listen.” Rodney, who had no concept of personal space, pressed himself against John’s shoulder so he could whisper in his ear. “Ken Burman. Look into it.”

John recognized the name, but it took him a minute to place it. “The CEO of Alaraph Pharmaceuticals? He’s dead, Rodney.”

“I know! That’s the whole point. They said he, what, drowned? Lie.”

Ford wasn’t the only one who never met a conspiracy theory he didn’t like, though John was pretty sure that Rodney created his own. It was particularly frustrating because John got the sense that Rodney was a really smart guy, that he could be doing something good with his life instead of driving a cab and bringing John lunatic theories that made no sense.

“No, he did drown, Rodney. At his place in Marblehead. Some sort of tragic accident. It was front page news.”

Rodney shook his head, his crooked mouth twisting down more than usual. “That’s what they want you to think, but no. Wrong, wrong, wrong. He was murdered, right here in the city, and if you don’t believe me call whoever passes for a medical examiner out on the Island and ask them. Ask what kind of water he had in his lungs, because it wasn’t chlorinated water and it wasn’t bay water, it was filthy city water, I guarantee you.”

“And why would anyone want to murder Burman?”

“You’re the investigator. Investigate!” Rodney flapped one hand at him, but John could tell that he was winding down now that he’d imparted the information he wanted to. Already Rodney’s focus was drifting over to the craft services table.

“Okay. If I promise to look into it, will you let me get back to work?”

“Sure. Of course.” Rodney looked at him and grinned. “You look good in guyliner.”

John flushed. The makeup was very subtle on camera, but that didn’t mean he was a fan of having to wear it. “Thanks. You need to go.”

“Oh. Right.”

“And next time call first, like we talked about. Okay?” He did honestly feel bad for the guy. Rodney wasn’t dangerous, but he was a restraining order waiting to happen.

“You hold on to that,” Rodney said when John tried to give him the notebook paper back. “You’ll need those details.”

“Whatever you say, buddy.”

Rodney walked slowly towards the exit door, which would take him down to the lobby via the stairwell, and at the last minute his hand shot out and he grabbed a couple mini subs from the craft table.

“Hey!” Arnie shouted. 

Rodney booked it to the door and was gone. John chuckled and headed back to the desk. He crumpled up the paper and dropped it in the nearest garbage can.

“You ready or what?” Blake asked.

“I’m good,” John said, settling into his chair and clipping on his mic. “Let’s roll.”

“Rolling!” Blake shouted.

John looked directly at the camera. “There’s no lie too big or too small, no underhanded deal that we won’t ferret out. I’m John Sheppard, and you’re watching _Exposed_.”

*o*o*o*

Everyone had gone home, or out for drinks, but John stayed at the studio, working in his office. The taping had gone well, as it usually did, and preparations were already being made for next week’s story.

He wasn’t the investigator Rodney thought he was. _Exposed_ employed a team of researchers, and outsourced to a PI firm to do the leg work. John was really just the face. And the name. Patrick Sheppard, John’s father, had been an award-winning investigative journalist. John might’ve had aspirations along those lines once upon a time, but he wasn’t half the man his father had been.

Which was why he spent most of his free time working his father’s case. John was determined to uncover the real reason Patrick Sheppard was murdered. He knew damn well it hadn’t been a simple case of a break-in gone wrong. No, Patrick had to have been working on something, something big, and he’d been silenced before he could go public with it. John was _sure_ of it.

The problem was that John had so little to go on. The supposed thieves had taken his father’s laptop, his digital recorder, even his cell phone. The week before his death, Patrick’s office at _The Times_ had suffered water damage, and John was sure that wasn’t a coincidence. He’d personally gone through every file there, paper and electronic, and come up empty.

Maybe some conspiracies were justified.

After two hours straining his eyes over the same paperwork he’d read a thousand times, John decided to take a break. On a whim, he looked up the number for the Essex County ME’s office and placed a call. He wasn’t surprised to get voicemail, given the late hour, and left a message.

After that there was nothing to do but pack it in for the day. John was the only one still working; not even Ford was around, probably off having dinner with his grandparents. The whole floor was silent, the offices dark, when he stuffed his father’s file into his briefcase and headed for the elevators.

It was too late for a run, so John would have to use the treadmill when he got back to his apartment. The exercise helped him clear his mind, helped him keep in shape for the cameras.

He had to abandon his plans for a quiet evening at home when he got down to the lobby and heard Rodney’s strident voice. What now? John peered around the side of the elevator alcove.

“I have rights! You can’t…get away from me!”

It only took John a second to size up the situation, and it wasn’t looking good. He’d never seen Rodney so agitated. His eyes were wide and wild, his fine brown hair standing up in tufts. The messenger bag was gone, and there was blood on his shirt.

John hesitated. He wasn’t sure if he should get involved. Rodney was a handful, as building security was finding out, and seeing John might make things worse.

They got worse all on their own.

One of the two uniformed guards tried to physically restrain Rodney, who somehow managed to relieve the man of his sidearm.

“Back off! Get back!” Rodney waved the gun wildly. “John! I need to see John! He’s…he’ll…”

Rodney hit himself in the forehead with a clenched fist. One of the guards tried to move in on him and Rodney swung the gun in his direction.

“Leave me alone!”

John stepped out of the elevator alcove and set his briefcase on the floor. He held his hands out, palms forward, and tried to look non-threatening.

“Rodney. I’m here. What’s going on?”

“John!” The immediate relief that flooded Rodney’s face was a little heart-breaking. “Tell them. I don’t…they wanted…”

“Take it easy, buddy. Calm down.” John slowly moved closer, trying to discreetly wave off the security guards; if they tried to move in it could be deadly.

“They want what I have, but I don’t! I don’t! I don’t even know what they want!” Rodney looked confused, sounded fearful, and it hurt John to see him that way. He deserved better.

“Who are ‘they’, Rodney? Why is there blood on your shirt?”

Rodney looked down at himself, and then back at John, his expression a mix of confusion and pride.

“Broke his nose! They weren’t expecting that, the bastards. But she broke my _brain_ , I used to be smart. John, she…he…there was a needle, I _hate_ needles…I can’t remember what I forgot!”

John was close now, enough to see the tremors in Rodney’s extremities and the sweat beading up on his brow. He held out his hand. “Give me the gun, Rodney. You don’t want to hurt anyone.”

Rodney stared at the gun as if he’d never seen it before. He handed it to John with an apologetic look, and then one of the guards had Rodney down on the floor, trying to cuff him. That’s when John saw that some of the blood on Rodney was actually Rodney’s.

“Hey, easy with him!” John dropped to his knees and slid the gun over to the other guard.

Rodney’s coat had hidden a bloody wound on his side, one that was still oozing. John kept a hand on Rodney’s heaving chest as he took a closer look. He was no expert, but it looked like some sort of puncture wound.

“Call an ambulance,” he barked at the guards. “Rodney, what happened? Who hurt you?”

The fight abruptly went out of Rodney, and he deflated like a spent balloon. He clutched at John’s arm. “I got away. But there were stairs, and men…I think I fell. Two of us fell. It hurts.”

“I bet it does. Help is on the way.”

John might’ve been embarrassed by the way Rodney curled up with his head in John’s lap, but he was legitimately concerned for the other man. His eyes were glassy, which John knew meant he’d either taken something or been dosed. He wanted to help Rodney, felt an unexpected well of affection for the crazy person who had fallen into his life six months ago.

“I’m gonna take a nap,” Rodney mumbled, pressing his face into John’s knee. “I’ll remember later. Sorry. Sorry, John.”

John patted him on the shoulder. “It’s okay, buddy. Everything’s going to be okay.”

He wished he believed it.

*o*o*o*

John paced a hole in the floor at the hospital, waiting to get a chance to see Rodney. He’d already given a statement to the police about the incident at the studio, had already talked to the doctor, and left a message for his father’s lawyer and old friend, Matt Locke, to see if he’d take Rodney’s case. He’d done as much as he could.

He hated waiting. And he hated hospitals.

When he finally got to see Rodney, who was being kept in a secured area of the hospital, it was shortly after he’d been given something to help him sleep. Which of course only got him riled up.

“John! Why am I here? I can’t sleep. I can’t.”

Rodney’s right hand was cuffed to the side rail of the bed and he’d been dressed in a hospital gown. The doctor had told John that whatever pierced Rodney’s side hadn’t done any real damage, apart from blood loss. He’d been lucky.

“You need to rest, Rodney,” John said. 

“Why the cuffs? I’m not a criminal. They can’t keep me here.”

“Rodney. You threatened people with a gun.”

He stared at John. “Oh. I did?”

John embraced the familiar feeling of exasperation, which he knew how to deal with better than the affection he’d felt earlier. “Yes, you did. But don’t worry, I’m getting you some help. I called a lawyer.”

“I don’t need help. No. Wait. Yes I do.” Rodney used his free hand to gesture at the sleeping tattooed guy cuffed to the other bed. “Switch our charts.”

“Why would I want to do that?” John eyed the other guy, wondered what he was in for. He looked pretty ferocious, even in sleep.

Rodney gave him an incredulous look. “Are you serious? I’m in the system now! I’m networked! They’ll know I’m here, and they’ll send someone to get to me. You have to help me.”

He’d lost his earlier fire, his eyes starting to droop as the medication took hold. Rodney’s mouth twisted down as he fought it, fought to stay awake, and John mentally cursed the affection that reared up again at the sight.

“Do you even hear how paranoid you sound?” John asked.

“It’s not paranoia if they’re really out to get you,” Rodney replied, his words starting to slur. “Please, John. Save my life. I’ll owe you one, I promise.”

While John was thinking of some way to respond to that, Rodney fell asleep. John watched him for a long minute, taking in the reassuringly even breaths and how much younger Rodney looked when he wasn’t all tense and spouting crazy theories at anyone who’d listen.

Six months ago John had gotten mugged while he was out running. There were two of them: lean, dangerous-looking kids who were clearly high on something. One of them had a knife, and wanted more from John than just the cash he had stuffed down in his sneaker and the iPod strapped to his arm.

And then Rodney had come out of nowhere, swinging a stick and knocking the knife out of the kid’s hand. He’d chased them both off, and then insisted on driving John home in his cab to make sure he got there okay. Rodney had apologized for not being able to get John’s money back, had offered to give him some.

That had been the start of their relationship, which consisted mostly of Rodney popping by the studio every few weeks with a ‘breaking news story’ he thought John should cover. John had never had the heart to tell him to stop coming around. Now he wondered if he shouldn’t have drawn a line months ago, because Rodney was sucking him into a drama that John neither understood nor wanted to be a part of.

But he switched the charts before he left.

*o*o*o*

John expected trouble when he got off the hospital elevator on Rodney’s floor and was buzzed through the security door. He’d gotten a call first thing that morning, requesting his immediate presence. It didn’t bode well. Still, he wasn’t prepared for the sheet-covered body that was being wheeled out of Rodney’s room just as he reached it.

John’s breath caught in his throat, and he couldn’t seem to jar it loose. He thought maybe he’d suffocate right there in the hallway, of the fucking _hospital_ , but then someone pulled the sheet back from the dead man’s face and it wasn’t Rodney, it wasn’t Rodney, it was the other guy, and it was John’s hand on the sheet.

“Sir, you can’t –” the orderly started to protest, but the uniformed cop standing guard outside the room waved him off.

“He’s cleared.”

The orderly replaced the sheet with a put-upon look and continued wheeling the body down the hall while John pulled in a painful breath. Not Rodney.

“Guy comes in with stab wounds, dies of a heart attack,” the cop said conversationally. “Talk about karma.”

“What?” John just stared at him, still feeling a bit off center.

“There’s a bunch of suits down in the morgue. They’re here to identify the body, and they have some questions for you.”

John nodded absently, his mind already taking apart everything the cop said and rearranging it in a way that made sense. There were detectives waiting to ask him about Rodney, who they thought was dead. Because John had switched the charts. Shit.

“Can I have a minute?” John asked, inclining his head towards the room.

“Sure thing. Take your time.”

He slipped into the room, the rest of the tension flooding out of him when he saw Rodney alive and alert, grinning at him from the bed he was still handcuffed to. He’d lost the glassy-eyed look he’d had the day before, his eyes now gleaming with a mania that couldn’t be blamed on drugs.

“Did you see that? Poor bastard. Probably a reaction to the cocktail. I bet they hadn’t counted on that.”

“What the hell happened?”

Rodney gave a lopsided shrug. “I don’t know, I was sedated into oblivion. I assume they gave him the same shit they gave me, only he maybe had a weak heart or something. You know, biology isn’t really my thing. I don’t think. But it’s okay. He was in for assaulting his wife. He wasn’t a nice guy.”

“Rodney –”

“I can’t believe you switched the charts. I mean, I was hoping you would but you don’t always seem so accommodating, you know? Did you look into Burman’s murder?”

“What? No.” John rubbed a hand over his face. He should’ve stayed in bed. He wasn’t ready to deal with a day that was shaping up to be a huge clusterfuck. “Listen, there are cops and who knows who else here, getting ready to identify _your_ body. I have to go down and meet with them.”

“Oh.” Rodney looked crestfallen. “Well, I won’t be here when you get back. So thanks. For saving my life.”

“I didn’t do anything,” John protested. Just possibly helped someone get murdered, but he’d freak out about that later. He also didn’t ask Rodney where he thought he was going, chained up as he was. Plausible deniability.

“Sure.” Rodney gave him an exaggerated wink. 

John just shook his head and left.

*o*o*o*

“This isn’t Rodney.”

The morgue was packed with men and women in suits, all of them clustered around the body on the exam table. John hung back, trying to figure out exactly who he was dealing with. He’d bet money these weren’t just law enforcement types; he’d done enough interviews to recognize government-issue agents. What the hell was Rodney wrapped up in?

The woman who’d spoken turned around and John tried not to gape when he got his first look at her. She wore a black pants suit and high heels, even though she had to easily be five foot seven or taller without them. Her hair was dark brown, almost black, and cut into a severe bob.

Her nose had very recently been broken, judging by the white splint taped over it and the purplish bruising under each eye.

“Mr. Sheppard, I presume?”

John tried very hard to school his features into a more bland expression. Rodney had babbled about breaking someone’s nose, though he’d had some trouble with pronouns at the time. To see the evidence of Rodney’s story standing in front of him was disconcerting.

“You have me at a disadvantage.”

“Margot Stewart. Psychiatrist for the CIA.” She had a very firm handshake. John noticed that her nails were unpainted and she wore no visible jewelry. “You don’t seem very surprised that reports of Rodney McKay’s death are apparently premature.”

John didn’t like the intent look she was giving him, as if she could read everything on his face. He wasn’t fond of shrinks in general, but the vibes he was getting off Dr. Stewart were not good.

“Rodney’s a pretty resilient guy,” he replied.

“Let’s go see about that. Shall we?” Dr. Stewart cocked an eyebrow at him before sweeping out of the room, three suits following on her heels. 

John trailed along behind with the last of the suits, a guy who didn’t seem quite as comfortable in his tailored get-up. He gave John a conspiratorial grin.

“Is she a shrink or a field agent?” he asked, keeping his voice low. He had a vaguely twangy accent.

“She’s trouble,” John replied.

“Yeah. I’m getting that feeling.” The guy reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card. “Agent Mitchell. FBI.”

“What’s your interest in Rodney?”

“Let’s just say he’s connected to several crimes in and around the city.”

“Right.” John pocketed the card as they got to the elevator, everyone cramming inside.

There was an uncomfortable silence for the duration of time it took to get back to the third floor, and they reached the security door just in time to see Rodney through the small window, zipping around a corner, bare ass peeking out of the open-backed hospital gown and carrying the bedrail he was still attached to. How the hell had he managed that?

“Open this door!” Dr. Stewart shouted. “Now!”

“You don’t need to shout at me,” the nurse behind the reception desk said, hands on her hips. “Why don’t you ask nicely?”

The shrink slapped her hand on the door. “Open the goddamned door before I have you fired!”

“You want to watch your tone!” the nurse said, glowering.

Mitchell grinned. “This turns into a brawl, my money’s on the nurse.”

It didn’t end up coming to blows, but for a minute there John wasn’t sure. He hoped the delay had been sufficient for Rodney to get away. He couldn’t help feeling a bit protective of the man, despite the crimes he may or may not have committed. John especially didn’t like the idea of Dr. Stewart getting her hooks into him. 

“I want this hospital locked down! No-one in, no-one out. We’ll search floor by floor, starting with this one.” Dr. Stewart pointed one blunt-nailed finger at her cohorts. “Coordinate with hospital security. It shouldn’t be that difficult to find a half-naked man chained to a bedrail.”

“Field agent,” Mitchell murmured to John. 

Everyone scattered to search for Rodney and John found himself unexpectedly alone. He trailed along behind the suits and the guards, though he wasn’t sure what he could do. It wasn’t like he could intercede on Rodney’s behalf, particularly since he knew so little about the man and what he might be involved in. Whatever it was, having both the CIA and the FBI involved was bad. 

So of course it was John who found Rodney, dangling in a laundry chute because the bedrail had gotten wedged in the opening. One of the security guards lay nearby, unconscious.

“Something you want to tell me?” John asked, leaning over the chute. Rodney’s face was red with exertion.

“Oh. Hi. How’s it going?” He was holding on to the rail with both hands, legs flailing.

“How’s it going? This place is crawling with FBI and CIA, including a woman with a broken nose. Coincidence?”

Rodney’s eyes widened comically. “She’s _here_? Oh, no. That’s bad. That’s _terrible_. John, you have to help me!”

“I don’t know if I should,” John said. Which was only the truth, no matter how ridiculously endearing Rodney looked hanging there like a fish on a line. He might’ve laughed at the absurdity of the whole situation, if not for the stark fear all over Rodney’s face.

“I can explain, I swear! But not if they haul me away and liquefy what’s left of my brain. John. Please.”

“You’re insane,” John muttered, not sure if he meant himself or Rodney. He grabbed the handcuff keys off the security guard and went back to the chute. And if he took a little pleasure in unlocking the cuff and watching Rodney plummet down to the laundry room, he didn’t think anyone would hold that against him.

He slid the door of the chute closed as much as he could with the bedrail still in place, and high-tailed it out of the room.

*o*o*o*

Against all odds, Rodney somehow managed to elude capture. The hospital remained locked down for hours as a more thorough search was initiated. Dr. Stewart apparently grew bored, and politely invited John to join her for tea in the cafeteria. John went along, but only because he was fairly certain she wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“So he sees you regularly,” Dr. Stewart said as they sat at a table by the windows. “But you don’t know where he lives?”

John stirred sugar into what would undoubtedly prove to be the world’s worst cup of coffee, focusing on the spoon instead of the shrink’s penetrating gaze. “You’ve asked me that three times.”

“Something new, then. Why you? Why did he pick you?”

“He saved my life,” John said. “I think maybe he feels like he needs to look after me, like he’s protecting me.”

“And so he brings you these stories.”

“He’s a good guy, Dr. Stewart. You have to look beneath the crazy, but it’s there.” In that John was absolutely sincere. Rodney could act like a loon most of the time, but his heart was in the right place. Maybe, if things had been different, their first meeting could’ve led to something…more. Something from one of those improbable romantic comedies women seemed to like so much.

“You genuinely like him.” Dr. Stewart sipped daintily at her tea, the effect ruined by the splint and the bruises.

“So. CIA psychiatrist,” John said, changing the subject. He had no interest in examining his increasingly complex feelings about Rodney.

“I’m very specialized,” she replied smugly.

“Like mind control? That kind of specialized?” There were always stories about that kind of thing, and in the context of Rodney and some of his crazy claims, it almost made sense.

Dr. Stewart grinned, and it was almost predatory. “More like rehabilitating trained killers, making them productive members of society. Although some go so far over the edge they can’t be helped.”

If her intention was to make John uneasy, she succeeded.

*o*o*o*

It was hours before the lockdown wrapped up and everyone left, empty-handed. John had no idea how Rodney managed to slip away, but part of him was glad for it. The other part was wondering how much of what Dr. Stewart said was true, and how much was to try and scare him into helping her. John didn’t like being played.

He also didn’t like sliding into the driver’s seat of his SUV and having someone unexpectedly pop up in the back seat like a deranged jack-in-the-box.

“Jesus, Rodney!”

“What took you so long? Do you know how hot it gets in this thing?”

John barely refrained from banging his head on the steering wheel. “What the hell are you doing in my car?” 

He turned in his seat to get a better look at Rodney, who was hunched down so he couldn’t be seen. He was wearing blue scrubs marked by very obvious sweat stains.

“I was waiting for you, obviously.” Rodney looked at him with narrowed eyes. “Did they get to you, too? You’re not normally this slow.”

John counted to three and forced his hands to unclench before he responded. “It’s been a long morning, Rodney. And I’d very much like to go to work.”

“How can you work at a time like this? We have to get out of here.”

“Rodney –”

“Take me home. They don’t know where that is.”

“Neither do I,” John pointed out.

Rodney looked momentarily crestfallen, but then he perked up and snapped his fingers. “But I do! Can I drive?”

“Absolutely not.” Resigned to driving Rodney home, and maybe a little curious to see where the man lived, John started the engine.

Rodney fed him directions, which John was certain were leading them in circles. He assumed they were supposed to be avoiding a tail, which was laughable. Right up until John noticed that the same car seemed to be mirroring all his lane changes and turns, a car that stayed two car lengths behind.

“I think we have a problem,” John said.

“What? What problem? Are we out of gas?”

“I think we’re being followed.”

Rodney strained to see out the back window without being seen himself. “Is it a Crown Vic? It’s probably the feds.” He turned back around. “Punch it! I know you like to drive fast, I saw the speeding tickets in your glove box. You should pay those, by the way. That’s not good for your public image.”

“Let me worry about my public image.”

John had no interest in starting a high-speed chase through the city. He pulled as far to the right as he could and flipped the hazard lights on. The cars behind him honked and he stuck his arm out the window, waving them past. 

“What are you doing? Are you suicidal?”

“Shut up and stay down,” John said.

The car that had been following pulled up alongside, prompting more honking, and the passenger window rolled down to reveal Agent Mitchell, who looked abashed.

“Hey,” he said, looking up at John.

“Was there something you needed, Agent Mitchell?”

“Just following orders. Sorry about that.”

The driver of the car leaned over, a woman with dark hair and a big grin. “We have to make sure you aren’t transporting Rodney in that thing. You aren’t, are you? It looks fairly roomy. Does it have third row seating?”

Mitchell nudged her back into her seat. “Did you think he was gonna just tell us?”

“Never hurts to ask.”

“I said I’d call if Rodney contacts me,” John said. “Which he won’t do if I have an FBI escort all over town.”

“That’s a good point,” the woman said.

“Keep in touch.” Mitchell gave him a stern look, but the female agent waved cheerily before driving off.

“If those two are feds, I’ll eat my hat. Metaphorically, of course, because I don’t have one. And if I did I certainly wouldn’t eat it. Can you imagine what that would do to a digestive tract?”

John closed his eyes, mentally counted to ten, and then pulled back out into traffic. “Let’s just get to your place, okay?”

“Oh. Sure. Make a left at the next light.”

“The more direct route this time, or else I’ll drop you off at the next subway station.”

Rodney huffed out a breath. “Fine. Make a right.”

John couldn’t help grinning.

*o*o*o*

Rodney lived on Lower Halpern, a low-income area home to blue collar workers, meth dealers and prostitutes. John hadn’t been too surprised when he parked, and then had to walk two blocks, take the stairs inside Rodney’s building all the way to the roof, and then climb down the fire escape to get into the apartment. As soon as they were through the door, Rodney balanced a glass bottle on the doorknob, which he claimed was a low-fi security hack. He took paranoia to new and terrifying levels.

And then John got a good look at the apartment.

The best thing John could say about Rodney’s place was that it evoked a sense of post-war bunker chic. The walls were lined with some sort of reflective silver foil and there were filing cabinets all over the place. A floor-to-ceiling metal bookshelf held a variety of battered science textbooks, ranging from basic elementary school material all the way through college-level astrophysics.

“You really should go digital,” John said. It was tight quarters.

“Sure I should. If I want to be dead the instant I sit down at a computer.” Rodney shot him a dirty look, and then pulled the scrub top over his head. 

John got a nice, full view of Rodney’s broad, freckled shoulders. “You do know computers can’t kill you, right?”

“Are you kidding me? Even leaving the low-level electromagnetic radiation out of it, there are plenty of ways you can get killed by a computer.” Rodney dug through a basket full of rumpled clothes and pulled out a t-shirt, which he sniffed and then put on. “What concerns me the most right now is that they can track me. Location software, webcam hacks…it would be easy for them to find me, John, and they can’t find me, because if they do no-one will ever see me again. You might want to turn around.”

“What? Oh!” John quickly turned when Rodney pulled the drawstring on the scrub pants; he knew for a fact the man was going commando under there. Which should have been gross, but was somehow hotter than John was comfortable with.

“You want something to eat?” There was a zipping sound and then Rodney moved around John.

“No, thanks.” John trailed after him, weaving around the obstacles.

Rodney’s kitchen wasn’t in any better shape than the rest of the place. Every cabinet, and the refrigerator, was locked up with chains and combination locks. There were stacks of empty take-out containers on the counters, and stuffed into the garbage pail. Rodney unlocked the fridge, and John was only mildly surprised to see that all his food was similarly secured, in stainless steel containers with numbered locks on them.

“I have chocolate pudding, and blue Jello. Some leftover chicken and broccoli.” Rodney sorted through the containers, muttering to himself.

“I’m good. Rodney, you need to tell me why the CIA is looking for you.”

“Because of what I know.” Rodney got one of the canisters open, wrinkled his nose at the contents, and locked it back up again.

“Which is what, exactly?”

Rodney slammed the fridge door shut, rattling the chain that was threaded through the handle. “I don’t know! I keep telling her I don’t know, but he never believes me!”

Mixed pronouns again. John wondered if that was a sign of a particular mental disorder.

“You have to give me something, buddy. Dr. Stewart mentioned rehabilitation, does that ring any bells?” He wanted to believe Rodney, wanted him to be something more than another crazy person off his meds.

Rodney snapped his fingers. “Ken Burman! That’s all the proof you need! What did you find out?”

“Nothing. Well…I did put a call into the county Medical Examiner’s office, but I haven’t heard back yet.” Even as John was saying that, he reached for his cell phone. He’d turned it off in the hospital and neglected to turn it back on again. 

“Are you crazy?” Rodney hissed, backing away. “Don’t turn that on in here! GPS tracking!”

“Do you want to hear what the ME has to say or not?” John was getting exasperated. The smart move would be to call Agent Mitchell and hand Rodney over to the authorities. Then again, John wasn’t known for making good decisions.

Rodney looked torn. “I don’t know. Yes. Do it. But don’t stay on too long. If government goons bust down my door, it’ll be on your head.”

“Yeah. Sure.” John turned his phone on and checked his voicemail messages.

“Put it on speaker,” Rodney said. “Not that I don’t trust you, or anything.”

_Mr. Sheppard, this is Dr. Mueller from the Essex County Medical Examiner’s office. I was very interested in the message you left me. As a matter of fact. Mr. Burman’s autopsy results did turn up a couple of anomalies. Please call me back at your earliest convenience and I’d be happy to discuss them with you._

“See? I told you!” Rodney beamed. For a crazy person, he had a really great smile.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” John warned. He hadn’t expected there to be anything unusual in Burman’s autopsy, but he wasn’t going to buy into Rodney’s story until he had all the facts. He dialed Mueller back, and glared at Rodney. “I’ll only keep this on speaker if you keep your mouth shut.”

“You won’t even know I’m here.”

_Essex County Medical Examiner’s office. How may I direct your call?_

“I’d like to speak to Dr. Mueller, please.”

_I’m sorry, but Dr. Mueller isn’t available. Would you like to speak with the Assistant Medical Examiner?_

“No. It’s very important that I talk to Dr. Mueller. Is there another way I can get hold of him?”

There was silence on the line, and then the man who’d answered it replied in a whisper. _Dr. Mueller was in a car accident this morning. He didn’t make it._

Rodney’s lips were pressed tightly together, but he was jabbing his finger at John and making little noises in the back of his throat.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” John said. “Thank you.”

He ended the call and stared at his phone. People died in car accidents every day, but even John had to admit that the timing seemed incredibly too coincidental. Had he just gotten another person killed? He felt sick to his stomach.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Rodney said.

“I really doubt that.”

“But this proves that –”

Before Rodney could dazzle John with his latest conspiracy theory, there was a loud _smash_ by the front door. The bottle!

Rodney didn’t hesitate. In one swift motion he snatched the phone from John’s hand and threw it, then pushed John towards the open bedroom door.

“Go! Fast!”

The living room window shattered, something heavy thumped against the door, and Rodney flicked several switches that John could now see were attached to fuses of some kind that sparked up the wall.

“What the hell are you doing?” John shouted. The apartment was rapidly filling with smoke.

“No time.” Rodney dragged John to the bedroom and shut the door. John was somehow not surprised when Rodney pulled his night stand away from the wall and revealed a trap door set into the floor.

There were people in the apartment, John could hear them coughing even as the smoke detectors started to wail.

“Rodney, I –”

“Take this!” Rodney pressed a flashlight into John’s hand. “Down!”

The trap door flipped up, revealing a ladder bolted to the wall. John stuffed the flashlight in his back pocket and climbed down. Was Rodney renting both apartments? How did he afford that on a cab driver’s salary? Rodney was quick to follow him down, pulling the trap door shut behind him and plunging them both into darkness.

John flicked on the flashlight, and found himself looking at…himself.

One entire wall had been transformed into an insane collage: newspaper cut-outs of space shuttle missions, murders and natural disasters shared space with photos of pyramids, Stonehenge and the Nazca Lines. And right in the center of it all was a life-size picture of John walking down the street by the studio.

“What the fuck is this?”

“What? Oh. That was here when I moved in.”

John turned, intent on calling Rodney out for being some kind of creepy stalker, and then stopped when he saw that Rodney was halfway into a set of fireman’s gear.

“Rodney, please tell me you didn’t set the building on fire.”

“Of course not. Just my apartment.” Rodney pulled on the jacket. “Don’t worry. It’s lined with fire-retardant foam board.”

Rodney slipped the mask over his face, becoming unrecognizable to anyone who wasn’t looking too closely. He and John walked right out into the hall, and Rodney did a passable imitation of a fireman as he directed everyone to the stairs

It was chaos outside, as actual fire fighters tried to keep back the crowd of gawkers and get the residents of the building to safety. Two ambulances pulled up, vying for space amongst the government-issue black SUVs that had most likely deployed the men who’d broken into Rodney’s apartment. John ducked his head when he caught sight of Dr. Stewart. Had she been the one who sent the extraction team?

John was starting to feel like he was in a Jason Bourne movie.

Somehow Rodney got them away from the crowd and into an alley, where he ditched the gear. “Aren’t you glad I had you park so far away?”

“Who _are_ you, Rodney?”

“Just a guy trying to put out a fire.”

*o*o*o*

When John woke up the next morning, the events of the previous day felt like some kind of fever dream, and if not for the post-it note on his bathroom mirror, he might have talked himself into believing that.

_Trust no-one. Except me, obviously. PS – You’re out of bread._

He’d reluctantly let Rodney crash on his couch for the night, after a spirited lecture on home security measures that ended with an empty beer bottle balanced on the doorknob of John’s front door. He hadn’t thought he’d be able to sleep, but John must’ve found Rodney’s muffled mutterings soothing because he didn’t remember being awake for long after he finally crawled into bed.

It was a new day, though, and not even his detour into crazy town meant he could ditch work two days in a row. John’s first stop was to get a replacement cell phone. He really hoped that Rodney’s self-contained fire fried the old one beyond all repair, because the last thing he needed was to turn up as a suspect in an arson investigation. Bad enough he already had the government taking an interest in his life.

When John finally rolled into the studio, his producer was waiting for him. Elizabeth was normally an island of unflappable calm, but today she looked agitated.

“Sorry I’m late,” John said. He walked past her to his office.

“John. Are you working a side investigation you forgot to tell me about?” Elizabeth trailed after him, and took up a position by the door, arms crossed over one of her ubiquitous red shirts. “Because I received a visit from some FBI agents this morning, and a call from a Dr. Stewart at the CIA.”

John wasn’t sure what he could tell her that wouldn’t sound insane. “They’re looking for Rodney.”

“I’m aware of that, thank you. John, if you know where he is you have to tell them. He could be dangerous.”

It’s not like John could dispute that, since Elizabeth probably heard about Rodney holding a gun on everyone in the lobby. The thing was, he didn’t _feel_ that Rodney was dangerous. Not consciously, anyway. Paranoid, yes. Manic? Absolutely. Mostly he just seemed scared.

“I don’t know where he is,” John replied in all honesty.

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes at him. “John, this isn’t time for one of your crusades.”

“I’m not crusading. I’m just…looking at all the facts. Okay? If I thought Rodney was really dangerous, I’d call Agent Mitchell.”

“I really hope so.” Elizabeth sighed, like she knew that was the best she was going to get out of him. “Staff meeting in thirty minutes.”

“I’ll be there.” John settled in behind his desk, already on his phone before Elizabeth had even turned to leave. “Ford. I need everything you and Miko can find on government training programs that include brainwashing.”

_Brainwashing?_

“Just see what you can find.” John ended that call and placed one to the Essex County Medical Examiner’s office. They already had an interim medical examiner in place, but John had to wait on hold for almost fifteen minutes while they tracked her down.

_Dr. Pillsbury._

“This is John Sheppard, from _Exposed_.” John rattled off the credentials that got him around most red tape. “I’m following up on a message that Dr. Mueller left for me before he died. It’s in regards to the autopsy on Ken Burman.”

 _Hold on just a minute._ John could hear her typing rapidly on a computer keyboard. _Yes, here it is. I’m sorry, but the notes aren’t flagged. Do you know what it was Dr. Mueller wanted to discuss with you?_

“He mentioned something about anomalies in the autopsy. I’m particularly interested to know if the water in his lungs was tested.”

_I don’t see anything here that’s out of the ordinary. Dr. Mueller did test the water in Mr. Burman’s lungs, but it was consistent with the area in which his body was found. Massachusetts Bay._

John nodded, not all that surprised to find that the autopsy had been scrubbed clean. If someone was willing to murder the medical examiner to keep Burman’s death from looking suspicious, it was nothing to doctor an autopsy file.

“Thank you, Dr. Pillsbury.”

He wasn’t going to get anything more on Ken Burman, not from Essex County in any case. John would’ve been surprised if the body hadn’t already been cremated to preclude any further testing. 

He was starting to sound like Ford with his conspiracy theories. Or maybe he was drinking McKay’s Kool-aide. 

The staff meeting was brief. Elizabeth mostly wanted to check in on their progress with the latest episode, but she also advised the group to be on the lookout for Rodney and to contact the FBI if they saw him. John sincerely hoped that Rodney was smart enough not to come by the studio.

Ford and Miko caught up with John after the meeting, Ford bright-eyed and Miko looking decidedly ill-at-ease.

“You guys have something for me already?” John asked, ushering them into his office.

“Doesn’t take Google to know about government brainwashing experiments,” Ford said. “Haven’t you heard of MKUltra?”

John leaned back in his chair. “It sounds familiar.”

“It was the CIA’s pet project for twenty years,” Miko said in a hushed voice. “Experiments in mind control, using torture and drugs.”

“LSD,” Ford clarified. “And they didn’t always have the consent of the people they tested it on. They used an aerosolized version on a town in France, and people died. I mean, this stuff was going on well into the 70s. And when the CIA thought they were about to be found out, they destroyed all their records.”

“This is bad stuff, John,” Miko said. “Does this have anything to do with Rodney?”

“I don’t know,” John replied honestly. “Secret government experiments? It sounds crazy.”

“But the facts are all out there, on official government documents.” Ford pushed a flash drive across the desk. “I copied everything on here. It’s all public knowledge, but it’s pretty dark stuff. Be careful.”

“Thanks, guys.”

John waited until they left before he popped in the flash drive and took a look at the files Ford had copied for him. And he was right. It was damn dark stuff.

The CIA had funded a doctor in Canada who was performing human experiments, with government approval. He treated his patients with hallucinogenic drugs, put them in drug-induced comas, and regularly utilized electroconvulsive therapy using much higher levels than normal. He did permanent damage to the patients under his care.

From what John could tell, CIA agents themselves didn’t fare much better, as they were often the unwitting victims of drug testing. Experiments included sleep deprivation, mixing drugs to cause disorientation in subjects, hypnosis, and physical pain. Many of the test subjects were addicts, prostitutes, prisoners, the mentally ill…people no-one cared about.

MKUltra was supposedly shut down in 1973, but what if it wasn’t? What if Rodney was a test subject, witting or unwitting? It would explain his mental confusion, his paranoia, and why Dr. Stewart was so eager to get her hands on him. John had never given much credence to conspiracy theories in the past, but clearly there was some basis for the idea that the government was holding back on some of the shadier things they were involved in. Treatment of prisoners at places like Abu Ghraib seemed particularly evocative of some of the things John was reading about, and those kinds of interrogation techniques had been developed during the MKUltra period.

John wondered what his dad would’ve thought about it all.

A knock at the door jarred John from his thoughts. Ford came in carrying a basket full of mini muffins, which he deposited on John’s desk.

“This was dropped off for you,” he said. “There’s a card.”

There was indeed a card, tied to the handle of the basket with blue ribbon. John untied it, and removed the card from the envelope. He had no trouble recognizing Rodney’s handwriting.

_The wheels on the bus go West. 11:20:00._

John rubbed his hand over his mouth. Rodney wanted to meet with him. On the bus? Or maybe at the bus stop? There was one a block up from the studio. It was smart of Rodney not to come around in person, but John knew he himself had to be under surveillance, and if he went to meet Rodney someone would know. Then again, Rodney was really good at giving the feds the slip.

“Everything okay?” Ford asked. He was trying to get a look at the card, but John pocketed it. He did the same with the flash drive and turned his laptop off.

“I have to step out for a bit. You can bring the muffins to the staff room.”

“What should I tell Elizabeth?”

“Tell her I’m chasing down a lead.” It wasn’t completely untrue. If Rodney was part of an updated version of MKUltra, John could break it wide open with Rodney’s help. It was bigger than senators with mistresses and CEOs embezzling company funds. It was the kind of story his father would’ve loved to be involved in. 

“Be careful!” Ford called after him.

John tried to look as casual as possible as he exited the building. He slipped his sunglasses on and walked to the bus stop. He kept an eye out for government-issue cars, but they were better at hiding today than they’d been at tailing him the day before.

Rodney wasn’t at the bus stop, so John sat on the shaded bench and waited for the next westbound bus. He surreptitiously watched the passersby on the sidewalk, wondering if any of them were FBI or CIA. No-one stood out, though the guy by the hot dog stand kept shooting looks in his direction. John had never felt so exposed. He was relieved when the bus rumbled up to the stop.

John paid his fare, and chose a seat by the window. He didn’t care much for public transportation. Driving in the city wasn’t always the most efficient option, but he liked to be at wheel. He liked to be in control. It was actually a pretty good metaphor for his life in general, although right now it would take more than driving himself around to feel that way.

Rodney got on two stops later and dropped down into the seat beside John, all smiles. “Did you see that?”

“See what?”

“With the cars, and the hot dog cart? No? Well, never mind.” Rodney looked crestfallen. “I made sure no-one’s following us.”

“You can’t keep hiding from the feds,” John said. “They’re going to catch you eventually.”

“They can’t bury the truth.”

“Wanna bet?” John told him about Burman’s autopsy files. “Rodney, have you ever heard of Project MKUltra?”

Rodney just stared at him for a long moment. “Brainwashing? That’s what you think this is about?”

“Isn’t it?” John countered. Rodney claimed not to know what Stewart wanted from him, but surely there had to be something in that mixed up head of his, something that John could shake loose to help make sense of everything.

“Brainwashing is easy,” Rodney said. His expression turned dark, and John was immediately sorry he’d asked. “What they do is something else. They get inside your head. And you have to do things you don’t want to do, but you can’t help it, you can’t help it, all you can do is watch because they take your voice and your free will, and they use it against you.”

That sounded a lot like brainwashing to John, but there was no sense calling Rodney on that, not when he was gearing up for another one of his crazy rants.

“They’re everywhere, places you wouldn’t expect, but they know their job. Keep the population fat and lazy. Put hormones in food, genetically alter the vegetables, and why else would Hamburger Helper be cheaper than salad?”

The other people on the bus were glancing at them in concern as Rodney’s voice got louder and louder. He almost took John’s eye out with his expansive arm gestures.

“They’re altering us, turning us into sheep, and we’re letting them, we’re _letting_ them!”

“Rodney!” John grabbed his arm, wrapped his hand around Rodney’s wrist. “Who are ‘they’?”

Rodney looked at him with wide, panicked eyes. “I don’t know! But they had me, John. They had me and they want me back, and I can’t. Because this time they’ll kill me.”

John could see that he absolutely believed that. John was starting to believe it himself.

“Burman knew,” Rodney said. “He found out about them, what they were doing. That’s why he’s dead.”

“How?”

“I’ll show you.”

They got off the bus at the next stop, and walked up to the nearest subway station entrance. Rodney seemed to know exactly where he was going, though after his outburst on the bus he was much more subdued than normal. Whatever had been done to him, John wanted to make sure someone paid for it.

“This is where it happened.” Rodney stood on the platform, where people were waiting for next train.

“Here,” John replied dubiously. “Burman drowned here?”

“Don’t you pay attention to local news? You’re not much of an investigator. This whole area was flooded out last week. Water main break, or so they said. And you know something else?” Rodney paused, presumably for dramatic effect. “Directly above us? The sub-basements of Alaraph Pharmaceuticals. Where Burman worked.”

John looked up, as if he’d be able to see through the pipes and concrete. Taken by itself, it was coincidental. Throw in the death of the ME and the presumed alteration to the autopsy report, and it was _too_ coincidental.

“Okay,” he said, looking back at Rodney. “I believe you about Burman. What’s our next move?”

Rodney’s face went through a series of contortions, his mouth opening and closing a few times before he blurted out, “I love you!”

“What?” John asked, startled.

“I find it very, very easy to be true,” Rodney said earnestly. “I find myself alone when each day is through. I'll admit that I'm a fool for you. Because you're mine, I walk the line.”

It took John a minute to parse the words, and when he did he felt a mixture of relief and disappointment. “Rodney, those are Johnny Cash lyrics.”

“I’m sorry. I’m nervous. It’s the first thing that popped into my head. But I mean it. And…and he’s your favorite musician? Right?”

That caught John up short. “Yes, he is. How do you know that? Have you been watching me? Is that why that picture was at your place? That picture of me?”

“I know you think I’m crazy, but I’m not. You know I’m not.”

“You’re confused,” John insisted. Because what was he supposed to do if Rodney really had feelings for him? The man was certifiable. Either the government had messed with his head, or he was legitimately ill, but either way John couldn’t see them having any kind of real relationship together. No matter how he might feel about Rodney in return.

“I’m not mentally deficient!” Rodney snapped. “I feed myself, dress myself, hold down a job. I know my own feelings. Do you know yours?”

“Rodney –”

“If I was a normal guy who had a nine to five office job, and a steady paycheck, would that make a difference? If I could remember all the things I forgot, would you want me then?”

John was ashamed of himself, because the answer to both of those questions was yes. If things were different, if Rodney wasn’t so crazy…yes, he’d damn well be interested. Rodney was attractive, and he had flashes of brilliance sometimes that took John’s breath away. Even in his mania he could be sweet and endearing. But to deal with that every single day? It would take more patience than John was sure he had.

“I thought so.” Rodney rubbed his hand over his eyes, and John’s chest constricted to see that he was crying. “I’d never hurt you, you know. I couldn’t.”

While John tried to think of something to say the train rolled into the station with a squeal of breaks and a rush of hot air.

“I’ll figure this out on my own,” Rodney said. He slipped on the train just before the doors swished shut, looking like someone had just killed his dog.

“Rodney! Wait!” For what, John didn’t know. But it was too late. The train sped off and John was left standing alone on the platform.

*o*o*o*

It had been a while since John had done his own legwork on a story, but he was damn sure doing it now. Instead of going back to the studio he called Miko, and had her look some information up for him while he went streetside and tried to get in to see someone at Alaraph Pharmaceuticals. He was very politely sent packing; no-one wanted to talk about Mark Burman except to say that his death was a tragic loss, blah blah blah.

John wasn’t buying the company line. Not this time. Burman had seen something or heard something that got him killed, and resulted in the death of Dr. Mueller to cover up the murder. But maybe Burman had confided in someone, or left behind something, _anything_ , that would give John a breadcrumb to follow.

It was a long shot, but Patrick Sheppard had made a career of turning those into Pulitzer prize-winning stories.

“Please tell me you have something,” John said when Miko called. He was sitting on a bench in the park, eating his lunch and trying to strategize.

_Maybe. I was able to access his cell phone records from the last three days before his accident._

“And?” John tried not to get his hopes up.

 _He made a couple calls to his second-in-command at Alaraph. Some random calls for take-out. And quite a few to a place called Blackwing Securities. His last four calls were to that number._  
John felt a surge of excitement. That was one hell of a breadcrumb!

_There’s something else, John, and I’m not sure what it means._

“What is it?”

_Burman didn’t keep any contacts on his phone that weren’t for food or off-track betting. But I dug up an encrypted note he’d made. There’s no date on it, but…_

Miko sounded hesitant, and John had a flash of premonition. Or maybe it was something that had been in the back of his mind all this time.

_He had your father’s contact information, John. And dates when they met._

“Anything else?”

_Not that I could find._

“Thanks, Miko.”

_Maybe you should –_

John ended the call. Burman had been in contact with his father, and now they were both dead. That wasn’t a coincidence. Had Burman confided in Patrick about whatever he’d discovered? Was John inadvertently working his father’s last story? For a minute he had a hard time catching his breath.

He never did ask Rodney how he’d stumbled across the Burman story. What was his role in all of this?

John tossed the rest of his sandwich in the garbage, and did a search for Blackwing Securities on his phone. He was glad he didn’t have his car, which probably had a government-issue tracker on it by now; until he had more information, he wanted to stay as far away from the feds as possible.

He took the subway to the Belmont Avenue station, his thoughts all over the place. What had his father stumbled on, and was it the same thing that had gotten Burman killed? Was Rodney putting himself in harm’s way because John hadn’t been man enough to step up and take ownership of his feelings? Where did the CIA and FBI fit in?

Too many questions. It was time to get some answers.

Blackwing Securities occupied the seventh floor of the Nagi-Cohn Building, which was all gleaming modern architecture and minimalist décor. It was a bit too sterile for John’s tastes, but then he wasn’t looking to move in. He took the elevator up to seven, sharing the car with a woman in six-inch stilettos and an outfit that could only be called ‘business trampy’. She didn’t give him a second glance, and he was happy to repay the favor.

The offices were full of hushed activity: a man making copies, three people having a murmured conversation by the water cooler, several others speaking over headsets, presumably to clients. There was no clutter, and none of the cubicles that John could see had personal items of any kind in them.

He went to the reception desk, which was manned by a very young woman with a trendy asymmetrical haircut and glasses with dark red frames.

“Welcome to Blackwing Securities, how may I help you?” she asked, without looking up from whatever she was typing.

John pulled out his business card and slid it across the counter. “John Sheppard, lead investigator for _Exposed_. We’re doing some research into Alaraph Pharmaceuticals, and it seems that there’s a connection to your company. I’d like to talk to someone about that.”

The girl looked up at him. “Oh. The TV guy. Hold on.” She dialed an extension and hit the button on her headset. “There’s a John…”

“Sheppard,” John supplied. 

“John Sheppard here. Something about Alaraph. Okay.” The girl ended the call and pulled off the headset. “Follow me.”

The girl led him around the edges of bullpen area, where all the cubicles were located, and brought him to a door that had no nameplate on it. She rapped once, and then held the door open.

John didn’t know what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t a lush office full of antiques and trinkets that looked like they’d come straight from the set of an Indiana Jones movie.

“She’ll be right with you,” the receptionist said helpfully, right before she closed the door.

John wandered around the room, looking at stone sculptures and wooden carvings, and tried to work out his plan of attack. Frankly, he was surprised they let him in so quickly, and with so little fuss. Alaraph certainly hadn’t been that accommodating. He realized why when a door to the rear of the office opened up and Dr. Stewart stepped through.

“Mr. Sheppard. Our paths keep crossing.”

“Dr. Stewart,” John said, hoping he didn’t look at surprised as he felt. What the hell was she doing there? How was the CIA involved with Burman?

“Please. Have a seat.” Dr. Stewart gestured at one of the leather armchairs in front of her desk, even as she sat down behind it. “I understand you have some questions.”

“You could say that. For instance, what’s a CIA shrink doing working out of a securities office?”

“I provide counsel to people making important financial decisions. It’s a little side venture of mine. The CIA doesn’t require my attentions full time.” 

Dr. Stewart was still sporting the nose splint, though the bruises had started to fade a little. She’d be an excellent poker player, because her face gave nothing away.

“Did you know Mark Burman?” John asked. He saw no reason not to get right to the point.

“Of course. He was one of my clients. It’s tragic, what happened to him.”

“I think he died because he was about to blow the whistle on something at Alaraph. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

Dr. Stewart leaned forward. “You think he was murdered? How awful.”

She didn’t look surprised, or shocked. Just politely interested, as if John was the one making financial inquiries instead of trying to solve a murder. He couldn’t get a read off her at all, and it made him feel off-balance.

“I understand you recently suffered a loss as well,” Dr. Stewart said. “Your father.”

John had to force his hands not to clench into fists. “Seven months ago.”

“I’m so sorry. His death remains unsolved, does it not? Is that why you’re working so hard for poor Mr. Burman?”

The implication being that he couldn’t close the books on his father’s murder. John didn’t like being played, and he really didn’t like Dr. Stewart.

“We’re not talking about my father.”

“Of course we are. The death of a parent colors one’s reactions and experiences, long after the event itself. Every decision you make, Mr. Sheppard, has to do with your father.” Dr. Stewart grinned, and it had a predatory edge that made John nervous. “Did you have a close relationship with him?”

“You may be a psychiatrist, but you’re not mine,” John countered. “Tell me about Mark Burman.”

“Let me tell you what I see,” Dr. Stewart said. She leaned back in her chair, studying him. “I see a man who went to great lengths to live a different life from his father. He went to college across the country, majored in math, and joined ROTC. Emotional and physical distance. He turned his back on the life his father had built for him. Rejection.”

John was getting angry. He didn’t care to hear his biography, especially coming from her mouth. He didn’t need to be analyzed, didn’t need to stretch out on her couch and discuss his daddy issues at length.

“That’s enough,” he said. But Dr. Stewart blithely ignored him.

“I see a man unable to fight his upbringing. He uncovered an incredibly scandalous story on campus his very first year, gained instant notoriety. Validation. He changed his major to journalism, dropped ROTC, and tried to make a name for himself. Deposing. But his father died an award-winning journalist, beloved the world over for his dedication to the truth. And the man works for a two-bit television show where he’s just the pretty face. Insubstantial.”

“That’s enough!” John shouted. He stood up and glared down at Dr. Stewart, who didn’t seem at all intimidated by him. “I didn’t come here to talk about me or my father!”

“No. You came here to ask about Mark Burman. But that’s the wrong question, John. You’re always asking the wrong questions.”

Dr. Stewart leaned over and opened the bottom drawer on her desk. The item she pulled out of it was immediately recognizable to John.

“Rodney’s bag,” he said. John remembered that Rodney hadn’t had it with him the day he ended up in the hospital, and he _always_ had his bag. It was like a security blanket. “So he really did break your nose.”

Dr. Stewart scowled, and it was the first bit of emotion she’d shown since John walked into her office. For a second, he swore her eyes changed color, though it was probably just a reflection from something on the desk that made them appear to flash gold. 

“It’s interesting, the things a man carries with him.”

She dumped the bag, revealing several notebooks, more pens than John could count, a baggie full of M&Ms, grease-stained napkins, folding binoculars, and a paperback book. It was that last item that Dr. Stewart picked up, and when she turned it over John could see that it was another science book, like so many other Rodney’d had in his apartment. _Our Intergalactic Ancestors_ , by Dr. Daniel Jackson. Although perhaps pseudo-science was a better word. It looked well-read.

Dr. Stewart flipped the book open, and plucked out the bookmark that was just visible over the edges of the pages. She slid it across the desk towards John.

It was a photo, as well-worn as the book. It had been cut down from full size, so it would fit more easily into a wallet. John knew that because it was the picture from his _father’s_ wallet, him and his father at his graduation from Stanford. He was decked out in his cap and gown, grinning and giving the camera a thumb’s-up while Patrick proudly displayed his degree.

His father’s wallet had been stolen along with everything else the night he died, and John felt like everything inside of him had liquefied, churning in a molten mass that threatened to burn him alive. He was sick. Nauseous.

“The right question,” Dr. Stewart said softly. “Is how Rodney knew your father.”

*o*o*o*

The conference room at the studio had been transformed into a war room. Both the CIA and the FBI were camped out in there, though Dr. Stewart didn’t look too pleased to have to share. They’d tapped the phones, even though John told them that Rodney never, ever called him, and they had people in the lobby keeping an eye out. Elizabeth had been sympathetic, but clearly not pleased at the disruption.

They’d ordered out dinner, Chinese food from the Red Wonton, but John couldn’t eat. He was heartsick, and confused. He didn’t know how Rodney had gotten hold of that picture, and he wanted so badly to reject the two most obvious answers. One, that Rodney had knowingly killed Patrick Sheppard, and then started stalking his son. But to what end? Two, Rodney had been brainwashed into killing John’s father for a third party, and he didn’t remember doing it.

John supposed someone could be framing Rodney, and that someone was the person who killed Patrick, but it seemed like an awful lot of work when Rodney could’ve been dispatched as easily as Dr. Mueller.

“Hey, John.” 

Ford sat next to him at the anchor desk, the green screen blank. John hadn’t been able to stay in the conference room and listen to a bunch of suits talk about the best way to bring Rodney down.

“You really think Rodney killed your dad?”

John shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“I mean, he’s crazy for sure. But I don’t think he’d do that. He saved your life that time, right?”

There was no disputing that. And Rodney hadn’t used excessive force to disarm the muggers and send them on the run. “It doesn’t mean anything,” John said wearily.

“Maybe he was helping your dad with a story,” Ford suggested. “He never told you what he was working on?”

John huffed out a laugh. “My dad and I didn’t have discussions. We had interviews. He sure as hell never told me when he had a line on something.”

Would it have made a difference? If he’d had a better relationship with his father, would he have been able to keep him alive? John felt like he was losing his mind.

“I wish there was something we could do,” Ford said.

“Me too.” John clapped the kid on the shoulder. He had a good heart, and he knew how to hustle. Maybe once his life wasn’t such a mess, John would try and turn Ford from conspiracy theories to legitimate reporting. He had a lot of potential.

“John!” Elizabeth called from behind the set. “Conference room!”

“On my way,” he called back.

“Rodney’s made contact!” Agent Mitchell’s partner, Agent Doran, was grinning like the Cheshire cat. John wasn’t convinced she was actually a fed; she certainly didn’t act like one. “You need to try these, they’re amazing!”

Rodney had sent another message via food delivery, this time a large box of artisan cupcakes.

“Stop eating the evidence,” Mitchell hissed, swatting his partner’s hand away from the box.

Dr. Steward held out the card that had come with the delivery. 

_Big Brother is watching. Corner of 16th and E. Mason._

“I told you he wouldn’t call,” John said. He tossed the card on the table.

“That’s all right,” Dr. Stewart said. “He won’t come to us, but you can go to him.”

“And do what? Make a citizen’s arrest?”

“Bring these with you.” She closed the box of cupcakes up, ignoring Agent Doran’s little cry of disappointment. “There’s a GPS tracker in the box. You take it to Rodney, and we’ll follow.”

Elizabeth was shaking her head. “Absolutely not. You can’t ask John to put himself in danger like that.”

“All due respect, ma’am,” Agent Mitchell said. “But Rodney won’t let any of us get close enough to him. He’s crazy, not stupid.”

“It’ll be fine, Elizabeth.” John did his best to sound confident. “Rodney won’t hurt me.”

_I’d never hurt you, you know. I couldn’t._

“You honestly believe that, don’t you?”

“I do.” And he did. Whatever else Rodney may have done, John didn’t doubt the sincerity behind the words Rodney had said to him at the subway station. If he’d killed Patrick, he probably had no memory of it. He had no way of knowing how much he had hurt John.

“We won’t be far behind,” Agent Mitchell said. “We’ll keep him safe. And we’ll apprehend Rodney as soon as we can do so without endangering civilian lives.”

Elizabeth still didn’t look convinced, but ultimately the decision was John’s. If nothing else, he hoped he could find a way to get Rodney into custody that wouldn’t involve physical violence of any kind. Enough people had died.

John took the box of cupcakes, and unplugged his phone from where it had been charging. He wasn’t sure what to expect from Rodney; they hadn’t parted on the best of terms that morning. The most John figured he could hope for was that Rodney was lucid enough to give him some answers.

The corner Rodney had indicated was three blocks down from the studio. John’s skin was crawling for the entirety of his walk there; he could feel eyes on him and he didn’t like it, even though he knew it was necessary.

Rodney wasn’t at the corner. John scanned the crowds, which were heavy with people getting off work. A cab pulled up and John waved it off. He didn’t pay any more attention to it until the passenger side window rolled down and Rodney leaned over from behind the wheel.

“Get in, idiot!”

John almost fumbled the cupcakes, but he got a grip on himself and slid into the front seat of the cab. “Hey, Rodney,” he said with forced cheerfulness.

“Are those my cupcakes?” he asked, looking askance at the pink box.

“Yeah, I thought you might –”

Before John could finish his sentence Rodney had grabbed the box and tossed it out the window, right into oncoming traffic. So much for the GPS tracker.

“What the fuck?”

“Those were lemon drop cupcakes, John. Are you trying to kill me? You know I’m allergic.”

Oh. John hadn’t paid any attention to what flavor they were. “So why’d you send them?”

“Because that girl with the big glasses that works for you likes them. You know, she’s always nice to me. You should give her a raise.”

“I’ll put that on my to-do list.” 

Rodney pulled out into traffic as soon as he had an opening, and then they were driving down 16th towards the bridge. John tried to look unobtrusively for a government tail, but he couldn’t see one. He looked back at Rodney, looked for signs that he was a cold-blooded killer.

“Where we going, buddy?”

“I can almost remember it,” Rodney said. He was gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white. “It’s on the tip of my brain. But I think I know where to go now. One thing to do first.”

That one thing turned out to be returning to the taxi garage and parking the cab next to five or six identical others. Rodney led him through the office, past the bored-looking dispatcher, and out the back. 

“This one,” Rodney said. 

It was a nondescript blue SUV, an older model, and the keys had been conveniently left in the center console. John thought Rodney would keep heading for the bridge, but instead he went in the opposite direction. And now that they’d changed cars, John doubted that anyone would be able to find them.

He very carefully reached into his pocket and slid out his cell phone.

“Where are we going?” he asked again.

Rodney hunched his shoulders. “We’re going where it started. And where it ended. I think I left my memories there, and if I could just find them I’d know how to fix everything.” He shot John a look, his expression bordering on desperation. “We’re going to Fullwood.”

John’s breath caught in his throat. Fullwood. His father’s home outside the city, the place that had been his sanctuary. And his grave. And Rodney knew about it, knew where it was.

John turned his phone on.

*o*o*o*

Fullwood was an hour outside the city. It had been a horse farm once upon a time, and while the horses were all long gone the stables were still there, empty but still redolent with the phantom scents of hay and manure. John hadn’t grown up there. Patrick had purchased the place once John had gone to college, saying he needed the peace and solitude when the noise of the city got to be too much.

The house was just as it had been the day Patrick died. John hadn’t cleaned it out yet, hadn’t boxed up his father’s things. He hadn’t want to do it, hadn’t wanted the reminder that he was alone in the world, and that if he’d maybe been a better son that wouldn’t be the case.

Rodney pulled in the driveway, but he bypassed the house and instead parked by the stables. There was a weight on John’s chest that was making it hard to breathe. All the reports of his father’s death had said he was killed at home, but Rodney knew that Patrick had died in the stables, bleeding out on the dirt floor. 

_The right question is how Rodney knew your father._

“What are we doing here, Rodney?” John asked. He’d tried getting Rodney to open up during the drive out of the city, but all he’d done was mumble to himself. Like a crazy person. John’s jaw hurt from keeping it clenched, stopping himself from asking the big question at the wrong moment.

Rodney got out of the car and headed for the stables, seemingly not caring if John followed or not. John sat in the car, undecided himself. There were things he thought he wasn’t ready to hear, might never be ready to. But he couldn’t stand all the unanswered questions. And a part of him was still hoping he was wrong, that Rodney wasn’t responsible for Patrick’s death.

He followed Rodney into the stables.

“He died here.” Rodney paced around the section of the floor that was stained darker than the rest.

“Did you kill him?” John asked, his voice choked.

“What? No!” Rodney looked betrayed. “I didn’t! I was supposed to. That’s what they wanted.”

“Who? Why did someone want my father dead?”

“I don’t…wait. He was on the story.” Rodney snapped his fingers. “He knew. He knew about them, about what they were doing, but he didn’t have proof. And they sent me, and I was his proof, it was all right there in my head and he promised. He promised to help me if I told him everything I knew.”

John let out a breath. He knew his father had been on to something, and something big from the sounds of it. He put his hand out to stop Rodney’s pacing. 

“What was he working on?”

Rodney gave him a look filled with uncertainty. “You won’t believe me.”

“I do believe you. If you say you didn’t kill my father, I believe you.” And John did, even though he only had Rodney’s word for it. His gut was telling him he could trust Rodney, and his gut was almost never wrong.

“I knew they’d come, when I didn’t do the job.” Rodney dropped down, squatted next to the place where Patrick had died, and he sounded genuinely remorseful. “I didn’t get here in time to stop them. He was dying.”

John felt is throat close up. “He wasn’t…he wasn’t dead?”

“I held his hand. He made me take his wallet, because of the picture. He was worried they’d come for you next, even though you didn’t know anything. I promised. Because he kept his promise, he helped me, and he knew I would do it.”

Patrick Sheppard hadn’t died alone after all. John’s eyes burned, but he didn’t have time to let his emotions take hold.

“Rodney. What did he do? How did he help you?”

Rodney wouldn’t look at him. “I had a snake. In my head. They put it there, and I wasn’t myself anymore. They used me, to get information. To get secrets. To get access.”

John dropped down to his knees, trying to catch Rodney’s eye. “They brainwashed you?”

“No. Yes. No. They put that thing in my head. Here.” Rodney turned, and pulled the collar of his shirt down. There was a thick scar at the base of his neck. “And Patrick knew a doctor who would come here and take it out, but it didn’t fix me. It made me worse. The snake did something to my brain on its way out, and then I wasn’t smart, and I forgot so many things.”

John didn’t know what the snake represented. Some kind of device they’d surgically inserted into his head?

Rodney finally looked up at him, and his cheeks were wet. “I used to be a genius.”

John reached out and curled his hand around the back of Rodney’s neck. “Who did this to you?”

“Dr. Stewart. She’s one of them, part of the Trust. She has a snake in her head, too. Sometimes it makes their eyes go gold.”

“Rodney, Dr. Stewart…” John paused. He recalled that moment in her office, when her eyes seemed to change color. He’d thought it was just a trick of the light, but what if it wasn’t? What the hell was going on?

“I wasn’t supposed to be able to say no,” Rodney rambled on. “No-one can push the snake back. But I did, and that’s why they want me. They want to crack my head open and see what went wrong. They want all my secrets, but they’re safe. They’re hidden away. And now you’re involved, and I promised your father I’d keep you safe. John, you aren’t safe.”

Understatement of the millennium. “We have to get out of here,” John said, belatedly remembering his phone. “They’re tracking my phone, they’ll be coming for you.”

That spurred Rodney into action. “You have to get out of here! Go!”

“Not without you,” John replied, shaking his head.

Light suddenly flooded through the open door and the windows, and John cursed himself for not hearing the incoming choppers, although they seemed to be running silent and that was more than a little alarming.

“Run!” Rodney shouted. He dragged John out of the stables, in the direction of the wooded area that would at least provide them a little bit of cover. But automatic weapons were firing, and the ground in front of them kicked up in clods of dirt and grass.

“There’s no-where to go,” Dr. Stewart said over the chopper’s speaker. “Come along peacefully, Rodney, and no-one has to get hurt.”

Rodney looked at John, his crooked mouth twisted down on one side. “Run away, John. Far away. Don’t let them take you.”

And then he was on his knees, hands laced over the top of his head, and two big guys in black tactical gear were on him, hauling him to his feet and dragging him to the chopper that had just lowered itself to the ground. John could see another still in the air, rail gun at the ready. Shit. 

“John?” Elizabeth hopped down from Stewart’s chopper, her hair whipping wildly. “Are you okay?”

John took a step towards her, and then four gunshots rang out in quick succession. Elizabeth’s body jerked with the impact, and she crumpled where she stood, dead before she hit the ground.

“No!” John was terrified, and angry, and he didn’t know what to do.

They almost had Rodney on the chopper, but at the last minute he twisted around and brought his knee up, dropping one of the guys that had hold of him.

“Run, you idiot!” he bellowed. 

John didn’t wait around this time. He turned and ran, shoulders hunching at the sound of gunfire. He kept waiting to take a shot in the back, and pushed himself to run faster, faster than he’d ever run before. He made it to the treeline, and he could hear at least one person in pursuit.

He hadn’t ever lived at Fullwood, but that didn’t mean John was a stranger to the layout. He remembered something he could use to his advantage, and adjusted his course, jumping over exposed tree roots, and dodging larger obstacles in his path. When he came to the old well, he kicked one of the rotting boards aside, and jumped over the partially exposed hole. The goon behind him, who was probably paying more attention to his fleeing quarry than what was under his feet, gave a shout as the other board collapsed under his weight and dropped him into the well.

John hoped he broke his fucking neck.

The choppers moved off, but John could hear someone still following along behind. Probably using night vision goggles, and that was something John could work with too. He ducked behind the nearest tree, chest heaving, and fished his phone out of his pocket. There wasn’t much battery life left.

He heard the second goon approaching, his steps wary. John knew he’d only have one chance, and that his gambit wouldn’t work at all if the guy wasn’t wearing the goggles. But for once the universe was on his side. He selected the flashlight app and popped out from behind the tree, holding his phone up and out.

The goon let out a pained sound as his vision was flooded with too-bright light through the googles, and John used the opportunity to kick the guy’s legs out from under him. They grappled, and John wished he had even an iota of hand-to-hand training, but he lucked out again and was able to relive the goon of his handgun.

They didn’t exchange any words, just grunts of exertion as they fought each other for control of the weapon, and when John saw the opening he took it, pulling the trigger on the gun and killing the man who was trying to kill him.

“Fuck you,” John gasped. He got unsteadily to his feet, hands shaking, but he kept hold of the gun as he ran back towards the stables. He hoped the car was still there, and focused on getting back to the city so he wouldn’t have to think about Elizabeth, or the man he’d just killed, or anything but finding Rodney and stopping Dr. Stewart.

*o*o*o*

John was exhausted, and there was a pretty killer headache throbbing behind his eyes. It was well past midnight, and he was waiting out front of the Nagi-Cohn building for Agents Mitchell and Doran. He wasn’t sure he could trust them, but just the simple fact that Dr. Stewart didn’t like them meant he was willing to give them a chance. He needed help, and he wasn’t ashamed to ask for it. He also wasn’t going to involve his staff more than they already were. He sincerely hoped that the Trust, whoever they were, wouldn’t see Ford and Miko as loose ends that needed tying up.

The feds finally rolled up, and they approached John warily.

“I was surprised to get your call,” Agent Mitchell said. “Rumor has it Stewart’s op went south, and you didn’t make it.”

“And yet here I am.”

“Is Rodney with you?” Agent Doran asked.

John shook his head. “Stewart has him.” He refused to think that Rodney might be dead already, but he also wasn’t keen on picturing all the things Dr. Stewart might be doing to him. He’d read enough of the MKUltra reports to know the kinds of torture his friend might be getting subjected to.

Agents Mitchell and Doran exchanged a look.

“I need to get upstairs,” John said. “Stewart has an office out of Blackwing Securities. I’m hoping there’s something there that can lead me to Rodney.”

“Okay then. Let’s see what we can find.”

Agent Mitchell flashed his badge to get them in the building, which was locked up for the night. The security guard took them up to the seventh floor, and John took the lead from there.

“Stewart’s office is…”

Gone. Everything was gone. Blackwing’s entire office space was empty – no cubicles, no desks, nothing to show that there’d been people there.

“I don’t understand.” John walked back to Stewart’s office, found it just as empty. “This was all occupied! I was here this afternoon, and there were people in the office!”

The security guard looked just as spooked. “I need to call this in.” He left, presumably to return to his station and call his superiors.

“Mr. Sheppard. You have to tell us what you know,” Agent Mitchell implored.

“How can I possibly trust you?” John asked. “Do you even work for the FBI?”

Another looked passed between the agents, and John reacted instinctually, pulled out the gun he had tucked in the back of his pants.

“Whoa,” Agent Mitchell said, holding his hands up. “Let’s not doing anything regrettable here.”

“We’re not FBI,” Agent Doran said. She didn’t look very concerned to have a weapon pointed at her. “We’ve been watching Rodney.” 

“For who?”

“The who doesn’t matter,” Agent Mitchell said.

“Then why?”

“How much did Rodney tell you?” Agent Mitchell countered.

“He told me about the Trust. And the thing they put in his head.”

Agent Doran leaned back against the wall. “That’s another NDA we’ll have to get signed.”

Agent Mitchell shot her a quelling look. “We needed Rodney to draw Stewart out.”

“You used him as bait.” John tightened his grip on the gun. Rodney was a pawn in a game that he still didn’t understand. John had been the only one he could trust, and look where that had gotten him. “He deserves better.”

“And he’ll get it,” Agent Mitchell promised. “We can repair the damage that was done to his brain.”

“Then do it! How can you keep him dangling like this? You put his life in danger!”

“It’s not that simple. There’s a chance that repairing Rodney’s neural pathways will mean a loss of the memories he has right now. And we need to know where he hid it.”

John’s eyes narrowed. There was always one more piece to the puzzle, and he despaired of ever knowing the whole picture if he didn’t even know how many pieces were still unaccounted for.

“Where he hid what?”

“Your father gave Rodney a flash drive,” Agent Doran said. “The information on it is invaluable for bringing down the Trust once and for all.”

“That’s what my father died for?” 

“I’m sorry,” Agent Mitchell sounded sincere. “We’d have stopped that if we knew.”

“Is bringing down the Trust worth all these lives?”

“Yes.”

John nodded. Okay, then. He had to assume that Dr. Stewart wouldn’t kill Rodney until he gave up the location of the flash drive. If John could find it first, it would give him a bargaining chip.

“Take out your cuffs,” he said.

“Sheppard, I don’t think –”

John flipped off the safety on the gun. “Now.”

He had Agent Doran cuff her partner to one of the support posts that lined the empty office space, and then John cuffed her to Agent Mitchell, who looked pretty pissed off.

“We can help you!”

“Like you helped Rodney? No, thanks. If I need you, I’ll call.”

John shut the lights on his way out, and the last thing he heard was Agent Doran purring, “Well, isn’t this cozy?”

*o*o*o*

After stopping off at one of those all-night places to lubricate himself with some coffee, John went to Rodney’s apartment. The whole place was empty, the residents temporarily relocated pending the arson investigation, and probably a thorough inspection to make sure the structure itself hadn’t been compromised.

It was easy for John to slip under the warning tape, though dealing with the lock took a little more time, and the crowbar from the trunk. He made sure to close the door behind him, which would hopefully keep from raising the alarm. He did have to use a flashlight, though, also handily found in the trunk.

John didn’t bother going up to Rodney’s place. He was pretty sure it was a burnt-out husk. But the apartment beneath his, the one they’d escaped to, that’s where he was most likely to find a clue. There was bright yellow caution tape across the door, and John ripped it off, pushing his way inside.

The apartment was almost totally empty. There was a bookshelf with more science books, a really uncomfortable-looking recliner, and of course the wall of crazy that had the big picture of John on it. Smoke and water damage had destroyed a lot of what had been pasted up there, particularly the newspaper articles. John’s picture was streaked and curling at the edges.

Now that he had time to study what was left, John could see that there were also pictures of snakes. Every type of snake, and worm, and legless crawling _thing_. It was more than a little creepy. But he didn’t see anything that would give him the first idea where Dr. Stewart might be keeping Rodney. Or where Rodney might’ve hidden a flashdrive.

“Fuck. Where did you put it, Rodney?”

John ran a hand through his hair, and leaned back against the recliner. He sprung back up immediately, cursing. Something had poked him pretty hard. He tentatively felt along the corduroy backing, and the he felt it. Something sharp and pointed, and probably not part of the original chair.

“Now we’re talking,” he murmured to himself. Excitement gave him a little energy boost, and he started pulling on the fabric covering the chair’s frame. It was only being held on by upholstery tacks, and not very many of them. It didn’t take John long to strip the chair of the cover and the batting, and then he stood back, puzzled.

It was still a chair, but like nothing John had ever seen before. It was cobbled together out of different types of metal – he saw steel, chrome, even brass – and there were arm rests with gel pads on them. The whole thing was in a semi-reclined position, and it didn’t look particularly comfortable to sit on.

John walked around it several times, looking for a trap of some kind, but it mostly just seemed like a piece of found-junk sculpture. Unless…maybe it wasn’t the chair, but something he could only see if he was sitting in it.

“Here goes nothing.”

He gingerly sat back in the chair, which could’ve been used as a torture device because it was so painfully knobby, and before he even had time to scan that side of the room the whole chair lit up, glowing blue.

Oh, shit.

There was a low-level hum in the back of John’s mind, at once familiar and strange, and he dug his fingers into the gel pads. He had to keep focused. He couldn’t get distracted by Rodney’s science experiment, whatever it was. He needed to find the flashdrive.

As if in response, a map popped up in front of him, all blue lines. He could see the wall behind it, like it was a hologram. Marked on the map was an X. For the flashdrive? John studied the map. The marked area was the YMCA down on East Lake Avenue.

Now if only finding Rodney would be as easy. 

The map changed, right before John’s eyes. Another X, this one on Meadow Glade Mental Hospital. He was putting a lot of faith in a chair of dubious origin, but John had nothing else to go on.

He pushed himself up and out of the chair, and the light faded out. He walked away without a backwards glance.

*o*o*o*

The flashdrive was easy enough to find, if someone knew what they were looking for. The lockers at the YMCA were covered in graffiti, but John recognized Rodney’s blend of math and nonsense shapes without too much trouble. It was a little harder getting the guy at the front desk to open it for him. He told the guy he’d lost his key, which got him nowhere. The guy was more than happy to comply, though, when John threw a fifty on the counter.

He supposed he ought to be thankful there was anyone even there to help him at that hour, but that particular Y had a twenty-four hour policy so that the homeless could come in for a shower or some shelter if need be.

The locker contained one small, metal box that glowed blue as soon as John touched it. He hastily stuffed it in his pocket. For all that Rodney claimed to have lost his intelligence, he certainly had access to some high-level tech. Whatever government agency Mitchell and his weird partner worked for, they might want to look into that.

Getting to Meadow Glade was likewise pretty easy. Traffic was exceedingly light, and the mental hospital wasn’t exactly in the middle of town. John had to cross the West Bay Bridge to get to Theodore Island. Pretty much the only thing there was the hospital, which had definitely seen better days, and a nature preserve.

The hologram had been right about the flashdrive. John could only hope it was right about Rodney. 

John did a quick supply check once he parked the car: Swiss Army knife, pistol that still had five shots in the clip, flashlight. The battery on his cell phone had long since given up the ghost, so he locked that up in the glove box with the flashdrive.

Getting inside the facility was easy enough. John slipped in through the loading dock, where a truck was unloading bags full of laundry. Typically, the night shift at places like this was fairly bare bones, with the expectation that the residents would be asleep. John skirted the nurse’s station and looked around for someone who might be more apt to help him out. Like the aide that was doing room checks.

“Who are you?” the aide asked. 

John glanced at the guy’s ID. “Alan, I need your help. John Sheppard, with _Exposed_.”

Alan visibly relaxed. “Oh, right. The guy on TV. You here on an investigation?”

“I am. And it’s very hush-hush, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh, I gotcha. You looking into the med thefts?”

“I’m working a few different stories,” John said evasively. “What I’m really interested in right now is to see if you’ve had any male patients brought in today.”

Alan gave him a considering look. “Will I get to be on TV?”

“Absolutely.” John would’ve promised him the moon.

“We only have two new admittances. Follow me.”

John felt like he was holding his breath the entire time it took to check those two rooms. Rodney wasn’t in either of them. It was a blow, but he wasn’t ready to give up. Not yet.

“He has to be here somewhere,” John insisted.

Alan shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you, pal.”

They walked back down the hall, and later on John couldn’t have said why he stopped where he did. But he did stop, and looked around, and then he heard it. A faint echo coming through one of the vents. 

“…night is dark and day is light…”

“Wait,” John said, stopping Alan from turning the corner. The vent was up by the ceiling and he looked around for something to stand on. There! A shower seat left out in the hall. He dragged it over and climbed up on it so he could press his ear to the vent.

“…mind both day and night…”

John let out a shaky breath. “Rodney?” he called into the vent.

There was a pause, and then the next line of the song. “And happiness I’ve known proves that it’s right.”

“Because you’re mine, I walk the line,” John sang back.

“That you, John?” Rodney’s voice, sounding small and far away.

“Yes, it’s me. Where are you, buddy?”

“I’m sorry they killed you. I’m sorry I didn’t keep my promise.”

John’s hands curled into fists. “I’m not dead, Rodney. You have to tell me where you are.”

“Are you in the vent? Did they shrink you, like Ant Man?”

“No, I’m not in the vent. Look around you, Rodney. What can you see?”

“Umm…floor. It’s cold. Sink. Light on the ceiling. Window. Walls. Why do they paint hospitals that pukey green color? I don’t find it soothing at all.”

John forced himself to stay calm, to not push Rodney too hard. God only knew what kind of cocktail Stewart had him on. He sounded really out of it.

“Can you see anything outside the window?”

“Umm…it’s dark. The green light is flashing.”

Green light. Green light. “Miles Tower!” John beckoned Alan over. “Where in the building can you see Miles Tower?”

“The north end. Which means your friend must be in Bayside, but that wing’s been closed for years.”

“Rodney!”

“Yes, John?”

“I’m coming, okay? Just hang on!” John turned to Alan. “How do I get to Bayside?”

The orderly took him through several corridors and down two flights of stairs. They came to a door locked up with a chain and padlock. Alan held up his hands. “This is as far as I can take you without losing my job.”

John fished Agent Mitchell’s card out of his wallet and gave it to Alan. “Call this number, and tell him to come down here as soon as possible. Can you do that for me?”

“Sure thing!” Alan said. He took off at a trot.

John backtracked up the hall to where he’d seen a fire axe. He broke the glass with his elbow – and shit, that hurt! – and used the axe to knock the padlock off the chain.

It was creepy, walking through the dark, deserted halls. The stuff that horror movies were made of. Turned out he didn’t need the flashlight; the overhead fluorescents, the ones that weren’t burnt out, offered dim, flickering light. Which was good, because he saw Stewart’s goons patrolling the halls, armed and dangerous, before they saw him. John kept to the shadows until he could slip past them.

The real question was how to find Rodney without making any undue noise. But clearly Rodney wasn’t as out of it as he sounded, because there was a ruckus down one corridor. One of the goons ran to investigate, and John silently trailed along behind him, gun out and safety off.

“What the hell are you doing, McKay?” the goon said. “What did you think this would accomplish?”

The floor was flooded with water, and John could hear more running in the room they had Rodney in. He couldn’t see anything with the goon in the way.

“It got you in here,” Rodney said cheerfully.

John pressed his gun behind the goon’s ear. “Walk forward. Slowly.”

“You just signed your death warrant.”

“Yeah, well, you won’t have anything to say about it.” John hit the guy in the head with the gun and dropped him to the floor, next to where Rodney was laying with his hands zip-tied behind his back. He’d kicked out the water pipe under the sink, and was looking pretty saturated.

“I think I’m drowning,” Rodney said.

“No, you’re not.” John gave him a quick once-over. He looked okay, apart from a gash over his eye and a complexion that was ashy at best. He was very clearly dosed, though, maybe with the same stuff they’d given him last time. “How you feeling, buddy?”

“You look pretty good for a dead guy.”

“That’s because I’m not a dead guy. Hold still, let me cut you out of this.” John pulled the pocket knife and sawed away at the zip ties until they fell off of Rodney’s wrists. He helped Rodney to his feet, and his hands might have lingered a little too long on Rodney’s arms, but he was just so relieved to find the man alive.

“You’re really not dead?”

“Really, really.”

Rodney looked smug. “I told them you could run.”

“What do you say we run on out of here?”

“Okay. Can we get some food? I haven’t eaten in a long time.”

John remembered that Rodney was hypoglycemic, and mentally cursed himself for not thinking to bring something to eat.

“Sure. Anything you want.”

John checked the hall to make sure it was clear. He was going to backtrack to the where he came in, but there were voices down that way, and so they needed an alternate exit.

“This way, come on.” John grabbed hold of Rodney’s hand and dragged him along, down the corridor and into the next one. The voices were getting louder, so he made for the first open door he found and they ducked inside another empty room.

Only this room wasn’t completely empty. There was an old-fashioned dentist’s chair in the middle of the floor, with restraints for arms and legs. As soon as Rodney saw it, his eyes widened and he backed away.

“Oh, no. No, no, no. Not the chair again.”

John stared at the thing in disgust. Was that where Stewart administered her drugs, conducted her torture? Pushed off to the side was a tray covered with a cloth, and what looked like an electroshock machine.

“We’re out of here,” John said. He was still holding Rodney’s hand when he turned towards the door. And found Dr. Stewart standing there.

“John,” she said pleasantly. “You keep turning up in the most unusual places.”

“Yeah, well, I like to defy expectations.”

“So do I.” Dr. Stewart’s voice changed, turning deep and more masculine, and her eyes began to glow gold.

John didn’t know what the hell he was seeing, but he didn’t like it. He put himself between Stewart and Rodney, and brought the gun up. 

“We’re leaving.”

“No. I don’t believe you are.” Stewart pulled her own gun. “Are you going to shoot me, John? How many people have you killed? Because I’ve destroyed entire civilizations.”

It was disconcerting, that rumbling voice coming from Stewart’s mouth, almost as much as the words she was saying. And she was right. The only person he’d ever killed was the man at Fullwood, the one who’d been trying to kill him. But she underestimated his need to protect Rodney.

The sound of gunfire erupted in elsewhere in Bayside, and John hoped that meant Mitchell and his team had arrived to save the day. Stewart didn’t even flinch.

“You can’t have him,” John said, trying to keep his hand steady. “I know what you’re looking for, and he doesn’t have it. I do.”

“What are you doing?” Rodney hissed, crowded close in behind him.

“I’ve got this,” John hissed back.

“Then he is no further use to me.” Stewart adjusted her aim, and John was suddenly sure that she’d be able to hit Rodney, even though John was standing directly in front of him.

“Rodney, get down!”

He didn’t listen. Instead, Rodney simultaneously pushed John to the side and grabbed the gun out of his hand. John went down hard on his hands and knees, scraping off some skin on his palms, and everything inside him froze when he heard gunshots. They were so loud in the room, they seemed to echo. And there were so many of them. Five? Six? More? 

“It’s okay, John. It’s over.”

John scrambled to his feet as Rodney dropped the gun with a clang. Dr. Stewart was down. Rodney had shot her once in the head, once through the neck. There was a look of surprise on her face. And then there was a squelching sound, disgusting and horrible, and a _fucking snake_ slithered out of her ear. _Holy fuck._

He turned to Rodney, and all he saw was blood. Stewart had shot him. Multiple times. How the hell was he even on his feet? But Rodney was looking at the snake with unbridled terror on his pale face.

“Not again,” he whimpered. “Not again.”

The snake slithered closer, and it seemed injured as well, sluggish and bleeding. John lifted his foot and crushed it under his heel, fighting down bile when he felt the thing pop under his shoe.

Rodney collapsed, and John just barely managed to grab him before his head bounced off the floor. No, no, no. That wasn’t how it was supposed to go down. John was going to take out Stewart, and then he and Rodney would walk right out the door.

“Rodney. Hey, buddy, stay with me.”

Blood bubbled out of Rodney’s mouth. “Sorry, John.”

“Don’t be sorry. We won. You killed her. Them. It. It’s over.” John wrapped his arms around Rodney, kept him propped up against his chest. “Help’s coming, okay?”

“He loved you, you know. Your dad.”

“I know.”

“I know you don’t believe me. But I love you too.”

John closed his eyes, fought the tightness in his throat. All he could smell was blood. “I believe you.”

“Thanks. For helping me.”

“Rodney…”

But the man had gone limp in John’s arms.

“Shit! Rodney!” John clutched him tighter, and yelled as loud as he could. “Mitchell! I need help in here!”

It wasn’t supposed to end that way. John pressed his forehead to Rodney’s shoulder. “I love you, too. You crazy bastard.”

Things were kind of a blur after that. Agent Mitchell arrived, called for someone named Lam. And then Rodney was gone, whisked away on a stretcher and no-one would let John ride with him. He didn’t even see the ambulance.

“Can you help him?” he asked Agent Doran, a little desperately. 

“We’ll do everything we can,” she promised. 

Men in green BDUs led John away, and he signed a lot of paperwork that he couldn’t even read because his eyes kept crossing. He had Rodney’s blood on his arms and a pain in his chest that wouldn’t go away. He gave someone in an Air Force uniform the box with the flashdrive in it, and it kept glowing in the other man’s hands. Agent Mitchell himself drove John to his apartment, and dropped him off.

“We owe you one,” Agent Mitchell said. 

John had just nodded blearily and trudged inside. He made it as far as his sofa, dropping face down on it and passing out almost instantly.

**Epilogue: Six Weeks Later**

John looked over the notes for the day’s taping while Cathy touched up his makeup. It was his first real story, one he’d done the legwork on. No more seedy tales of senators and their illicit love lives. John was finally taking his work more seriously. He wanted to help people, not just pander to his public, and so he was actively looking for meatier stories. Like the one he was doing that day, about a town with such polluted drinking water that almost everyone who lived there was sick. Ford had started calling him Erin Brockovich. 

John wished he could do a segment on what had happened to Rodney. He still wasn’t clear on the details, just that he’d signed away his ability to discuss it with anyone. Non-disclosure. And there was no-one around to ask questions, because it seemed that everyone had up and vanished. Mitchell and Doran weren’t FBI, and without knowing what agency they worked for John had no hope of contacting them.

His staff had been singularly unimpressed with his inability to explain what happened after Rodney had essentially kidnapped him that day. All they knew was that Rodney was gone, Elizabeth was dead, and Dr. Stewart was somehow responsible for everything.

John had been hopeful, the first couple of weeks, that he’d hear from Rodney. Just a phone call maybe, to let John know he was alive. When the call didn’t come, John became convinced that Rodney was Stewart’s final fatality. He’d sacrificed himself to save John’s life, and there was no way to repay that now.

No way deal with the feelings that were lodged in John’s chest, emotional shrapnel that ached no matter what he did. The best he could do was try to become the investigator Rodney and his father always wanted him to be.

“You ready for this, John?” Richard Woolsey hovered nearby, the lights gleaming off his bald head. He was Elizabeth’s replacement. He seemed to delight in paperwork, and he was less apt to raise his voice, but he was doing okay.

“I’m good.” John gave him a thumb’s up.

They did a run-through, and then John did some additional takes for any segments he thought were weak, or that he’d screwed up on. He was feeling pretty good about it once they wrapped.

“Nice job,” Ford said once the cameras stopped rolling. “I could see the difference. You really care about this story.”

“I really do,” John said. He’d gone to Watlinburg, had interviewed the residents, their children. Talked to local doctors. Tried to talk to the processing plant that was responsible for dumping their waste into the town’s water table. It was real to him in a way the other stories never had been.

“You want to come to lunch with us?” Ford asked. “We’re going to Mama Louisa’s.”

“No, thanks. I have some things I need to catch up on.” John clapped Ford on the shoulder and headed for his office.

Everyone on staff was still being really nice to him. They assumed he’d been through a traumatic experience, and they weren’t wrong. John had started seeing a therapist, telling the man what he could within the limits of the NDA, and he was still having the occasional nightmare. But he was dealing with it. He was putting it all behind him.

Or so he thought, until he walked into his office and saw Rodney, standing by the window.

John’s mouth went dry, and his heart started to pound. Rodney. Alive. He’d talked himself out of believing it was a possibility.

“Hey,” Rodney said. He was clearly nervous, the way his hands were twisting together, but John could immediately tell that something was different about him. The mania had gone from his eyes.

“Rodney.” John closed the door, and then just stood there, unsure what he was supposed to do. “I thought you died.”

“So did I. They tell me it was a close thing.”

An uncomfortable silence grew between them, and that more than anything told John that Rodney was different. Normally he’d fill all the empty spaces with words, rambling on about conspiracies or food or anything that happened to cross his mind.

“I would’ve come sooner,” Rodney blurted out finally. “But it took a while. To fix the mess in here.” 

He waved a hand over his head, and John could feel that snake’s head pop under his shoe like it had been just yesterday. He repressed a shudder. 

“And…I wanted to thank you. In person. You didn’t have to take me seriously, but you did. You saved my life. So, uh…thank you.”

John’s lips twitched up in a grin. Not completely changed; Rodney was still a little awkward.

“Agent Mitchell told me you might not get your memories back. After.”

“It’s actually Colonel Mitchell. And no-one was sure what would happen. They’d never had to rebuild a brain. That back alley doctor your father found didn’t know what he was doing, not that I blame him or anything. He tried his best.”

 _Colonel_ Mitchell. So the military had a hand in everything that had happened. 

“Technically, you saved my life. Twice. I still owe you.”

Rodney took a step towards John, then faltered. “No. John, what you did…I didn’t have anyone I could trust. But you…you were always there. You came through for me. And you had every reason to believe the worst.”

As John recalled, he _had_ believed the worst, temporarily though it may have been. “I’m glad you’re not dead,” he said, embarrassed at the hitch in his voice.

“Me, too.” Rodney sidled closer, completely failing to look casual. “You know, I’m not crazy anymore. And I thought, maybe, after the conversation we had in the subway…I mean, I know you didn’t verbally commit to anything.”

“No,” John said. He remembered that conversation all too well. Remembered that he’d been lying to himself, and to Rodney, about what he was really feeling.

“No?” Rodney looked crestfallen. “Of course. I mean…it’s okay.”

“No, it’s not okay.” John reached out, twined his fingers with Rodney’s. “Forget what I said. The truth is…the truth is I’ve been a little in love with you since that day you chased the muggers off. It didn’t matter if you were crazy.”

“Really?”

John shrugged. In the next second Rodney was crowding him against the door, and kissing him so hard, so deep, and it was everything John thought it would be and more. He wrapped his arms around Rodney, tried not to remember how his blood had smelled, and kissed back for all he was worth.

The persistent ache in John’s chest melted away, and he could finally breathe again.

“Do you get a lunch break?” Rodney asked, pulling back and gazing earnestly into John’s eyes.

“An hour. Why? You have something in mind?” He waggled his eyebrows, and Rodney rolled his eyes.

“No, hornball. Well, I mean, yes, but not right now. I want to show you something. You signed the NDA but you missed all the good stuff.”

“Okay,” John said agreeably. “But I have to be back in an hour.”

“Excellent.” Rodney pulled something out of his pocket, an ear piece that he slotted into his ear. “ _Daedalus_ , this is McKay. Two to beam up.”

Before John could open his mouth to ask questions, or make a Star Trek joke, a white light filled the room and carried him away. And that was a lunch break he could never tell any of his friends about. Ever.

**Author's Note:**

>  **AN:** This is a movie I’ve always really enjoyed. When I first thought about turning into a fusion, it was going to stick pretty close to the source material. But then I thought…what if Rodney wasn’t brainwashed after all? What if he’d been a Goa’uld host? Well, that sold it for me!
> 
> Please be advised that this is set in a fictional city, so all place names have been fabricated in my brain. ::grins::
> 
> Special thanks to wrathchilde for being an early sounding board, and nagi_schwarz for the cheerleading.
> 
> This fills the Major Illness or Injury square on my hurt/comfort bingo card.


End file.
